


people will say we're in love

by spacenarwhal



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Declarations Of Love, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-14 16:21:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18055928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacenarwhal/pseuds/spacenarwhal
Summary: Foggy’s pulse picks up a little, and Matt remembers the sun peaking through clouds, the way the light would diffuse through grey mist and ring it in white gold. The memory makes his palms prickle.[Or: Matt Murdock might be a legal genius and parkour wonder, but he's got a lot left to learn about feelings. Like, everything.]





	people will say we're in love

**Author's Note:**

> Sup y'all. Life has been full of exciting developments recently. I've moved and applied for a teaching program and such, but my heart remains a flutter for these avocados at law. 
> 
> Some parts of this have been previously posted on tumblr as one shots, but they have had some minor edits.
> 
> Also the title is from Oklahoma the musical because I'm sure Foggy's belted it out a few times thru the years. 
> 
> All the prompts are from 35 ways to say I love you over on tumblr.

**as hello**

 

“Matt-the-Man, Matt, buddy!”

Foggy is drunk. _Very_ drunk. His face is warm where it crowds against Matt’s neck, his breath hot against Matt’s skin. “I was looking for you everywhere!”

At their backs the bar is still a rowdy, crowded mess, full of Foggy’s other friends. Foggy’s ability to pick up friends is nothing short of astounding. It leaves Matt feeling dizzy after a lifetime of making do with getting by, nowadays he feels like he’s drowning in Foggy’s attention whenever he has it.

“Yeah?” Matt asks, smiling as he turns his head a little, chin bumping Foggy cheek. The rough knit of Foggy’s hat rubs at his jaw, his hair lifts in the wind, whips in Matt’s face. It smells like cigarette smoke and weed and the fresh-scented two-in-one shampoo and conditioner Foggy buys from the bodega nearest their dorm.  Matt brushes the wayward strands out of his face slowly.

“Did you look for me exclusively at the bar?”

He laughs at Foggy’s noncommittal hum, huddles into the warmth of Foggy’s arm draped over his shoulders, tries to thaw out some of the cold that’s settled in his bones from standing outside. Matt had only meant to come out here for a minute, but he’s honestly not sure how long it’s been. Long enough for Foggy to switch from beer to shots. Vodka if Matt’s not mistaken.

“Hmmm, there might have been a slight detour in that region, yes.” Foggy’s hand squeezes at his arm. He chuckles under his breath, and Matt recognizes the signs of an impending joke, “Come back with me my friend and I will show you the lay of the land.” Foggy’s voice is jovial in his ear.

Everyone seems to be a celebratory mood tonight, though maybe it’s more about taking any excuse to drink than it is about bidding their freedom goodbye before finals descend on them. Even Matt, who still feels wrung out by midterms and can already feel the headache of near-constant studying lying in wait for him in less than a week, hadn’t needed much convincing earlier when Foggy had invited him out. But the conversations had too quickly turned from classes and professors to holiday plans, annoyed huffs about overbearing parents and crowded homes and it’s not that Matt is so wounded by the past that he can’t stand to hear about other people’s families it was just so warm, and so loud and so…much.

He thinks about telling Foggy he’s heading out—it had been on his mind only moments ago, listening to Foggy talk with a few of his classmates from his Punjabi class, knowing that Foggy wouldn’t be alone if Matt went back to the room—but now that Foggy’s here it’s hard to hold on to the urge to leave. It’s been a long time since someone missed him.

“Take me to your leader.” Matt chuckles easily and Foggy cheers into his shoulder, holds him a fraction closer in their one-armed hug and tugs them both back inside.

****

**As a thank you**

The campus dining hall leaves a lot to be desired, but it’s one of the only spots within walking distance still open by the time Matt pushes pass the library doors after a late-night study session.

The dining hall is still buzzing with other students making a long night of it, the warm air filled with the scent of coffee and frying oil.

His cane whispers over the scuffed linoleum underfoot as he walks the familiar route to the counter. The clerk stationed there sounds bored as he swipes Matt’s student ID but he wishes Matt a good night all the same.

The dining hall travel cups are waxy before he slips the cardboard sleeve over it and someone offers him a travel tray to carry both cups and the carry out container with his food order.

Outside the air is nearly scalding it’s so cold, it burns Matt’s ears even though his beanie and snaps at his neck where his scarf slips low. He balances the food in one hand and maneuvers his cane with the other, mindful of slick patches on the sidewalk below as he makes his way back towards the dorm building.

The short walk seems to last forever and Matt feels completely frozen through by the time he crosses the threshold.

The elevator drones all around him, rattles gently as it comes to a complete stop on their floor. The hallway is a mess of sounds coming through the walls, a chaotic web of music and recitation and dictation, the air thrumming with a faint sense of panic that only seems to grow the closer they get to exams.

Matt pauses outside their door, rests his cane against the door in order to fish his key out of his pocket. It’s quieter than Matt expects, Foggy’s music silent for the first time in what feels like days, but his heartbeat on the other side of the door isn’t anywhere near resting.

He’s careful not to drop anything as he makes his way inside. Foggy makes a noise as Matt closes the door, setting the tray down on his desktop, folding his cane and depositing his bookbag on his desk chair.

It’s ridiculous but undeniable, the way the tension pinched between Matt’s shoulder blades disintegrates within the four walls of their room. It smells like them now, rather than the hundreds of  strangers and decade’s old décor that inhabited it before them. It’s a singular aroma made up of a hundred different scents, some Matt, some Foggy, all mixed up together. Snack foods and book pages, coffee and sweat, the caramel hard candies Foggy crunches on when he’s anxious and the creased worn leather of Matt’s book bag.

Foggy’s pulse picks up a little, and Matt remembers the sun peaking through clouds, the way the light would diffuse through grey mist and ring it in white gold. The memory makes his palms prickle. 

“Hey,” Matt says, plucking one of the cups from the holder and crossing the distance between the desk and Foggy, sitting on his bed. “Picked up some fries too if you’re hungry.”

Foggy groans, taking the cup Matt holds out to him with eager fingers. “Jesus, why are you the best?”

Matt’s ears burn, though the cold is already slowly seeping out of his body, leaving only a pleasant flush of warmth. He wonders if he could touch Foggy’s cheek, feel the shape of the smile that’s displaced the air. Because there’s no lie in Foggy’s words, just a round resounding gratitude and Matt wants to know the exact dimensions of it playing out across Foggy’s features.

The curiosity is new. He doesn’t know what to do with it.

So he doesn’t say anything, swallowing the urge with a sip of coffee.

 

**In awe, the first time you realized it**

 

Matt is so tired he could cry.

He could physically cry, his eyes gritty and his back tight and his stomach churning with nerves and hunger and too much caffeine. The book under his hand is giant and expensive–so ridiculously expensive, Matt’s mind is still reeling, imagining his depleted bank account. Braille books are always costly and Matt knows he’s lucky to have what he does, had to fight the school tooth and nail to get even the few books he was able to get, the rest of his study materials are copies and rips of audio files and recordings and that’s not bad, but it isn’t the _best_. It isn’t a three month prep course that some their other classmates are taking and it isn’t private tutoring and Matt knows envy is a sin but he can’t bury the sticky tendril of it that sprouts up his throat whenever he thinks about it.

He’s tired, of studying and of the dozens of addendums to his bar application for accommodations and he is tired, so _tired_. Not of being blind but of the world that requires him to prove it and pay for it, time and time again, so tired of justifying himself as though he’s trying to pull one over on someone, trying get away with a trick. It’s so late and he is so tired and in three weeks he’s supposed to sit down and take this stupid test and he’s not ready, not remotely ready, and he thinks he really will cry, or maybe just throw himself out the window and into the night, search for Stick and tell him he’s ready to fight a war if it means he doesn’t have to take the New York Bar.

(He feels powerless, the situation so completely out of his control and that makes him nauseous with worry and fear and anger, because there’s rage mixed in there too. There’s already so much of his life that’s out of his hands.)

Foggy’s head thumps against the tabletop across from Matt and the whole table trembles at the impact. The coffee in the mug Foggy placed next to Matt’s right hand hours ago shivers and the residual energy drink in the aluminum can next to Foggy’s books slaps against the insides of the can, the movement carries right down to the carpet under the thin wobbly legs of the second hand table Foggy bartered off Mrs. Mahoney.

“I think I’m dying.” Foggy groans, and his heart skips quick inside his throat, it ribbits and croaks like the frogs at the pet shop Foggy insists they walk by so he can stick his fingers through the bars of the cages of dogs waiting to be adopted.

“You can’t.” Matt says, slapping his hand down flat on the page so that all the words become indiscernible, just an unintelligible terrain of peaks and valleys. “You’ve already gotten us into this mess. You have to see us through.”

“ _Me_?” Foggy’s yawn undercuts his indignation. “You’re the one who wanted to save the world, Murdock. I could have been a butcher.”

Matt tips his head back, throat bobbing as he swallows. _The blind leading the blind_. His fingers twitch on the page and he laughs, a crooked rasp of air. 

Matt will never know what Foggy looks like, no matter how diligently he traces the shape of his face, but his laughter is warm, it fills every corner of a room and sinks into Matt’s bones, and in Matt’s dream’s Foggy’s face has started to take on a resemblance to the grocer who used to ask Dad about his fights and sneak Matt penny candies.

“You could have been a grocer.” Matt wheezes and Foggy huffs, apparently unamused, flicks a potato chip at Matt’s head. It leaves an oily smudge on Matt’s chin where it bounces off.

“We’re gonna be okay, Fog.” Matt breathes, feeling better than before, laughter still warm in his throat, the manic edge of exhaustion dulled just a little where it presses up under his skin.

Foggy sighs, shoulders falling and rising with the force of his breath. “I’m not seeing how.” He rubs hard at his face, flips another page. “Jesus, my only consolation right now is that you’re as miserable and sleep deprived as me. Seriously, bud. I couldn’t do this without you.” There’s no lie in Foggy’s voice when he says that, no ill-intention in his socked foot bumping against Matt’s ankle under the table.

Matt takes a sip of coffee–splash of milk, a touch of sugar, just how Matt takes it at home–and the even though its gone cold, heat still spreads down his throat, and then outward, branches from the center of his chest and down to the pit of his stomach, until there’s no part of him it doesn’t fill. It’s not the head-rush fire Matt knows best, the sort of thing that destroys lives and leaves ruins in its wake. It’s a smile, a laugh, a dream of something familiar, a home filled with second-hand furniture and a warm nudge against the top of his foot. It’s _Foggy_ , and Matt’s known it for so long now he didn’t know it could mean anything but that.

Oh. Matt exhales. It rattles in his chest. It’s just as much of a surprise.

“Who else would I do this with?” Matt asks, mostly into his mug, and he knows the answer even as Foggy’s foot presses over his. No one else.

There’s no one else.

**As an apology**

 

“I—uh—I love you, Fog.” Matt says, and the words hurt inside his throat. Matt’s said it before but never like this, never this scared of what might come after, heart swollen behind his breastbone. His ribs still ache from his showdown with Fisk and there’s an iron-hot cut on the inside of his cheek, he prods at it with the tip of his tongue lightly, grounds himself in the flare of pain.

For once the office feels massive, every empty room echoing in Matt’s ears, Foggy a million miles away even if he’s sitting there, on the other side of Matt’s makeshift desk. Karen’s footsteps have long since disappeared from the street below, swallowed up by the cacophony of Hell’s Kitchen but even the miasma outside isn’t enough to drown out the sound of Foggy’s breathing, the narrow pinch at the back of every inhale.

Foggy’s throat clicks as he swallows. His hair rustles softly over his ears when he nods, his fingers push it back behind his right ear.

“I know…I know that Matt.” Foggy exhales, thin, wishful. “I mean, yeah.”

He leans back in the folding chair, it creaks threateningly beneath him, the floorboards whine. In the thin crawl space behind the wall to Matt’s left something small and quick scuttles upward.

Matt rubs his thumb over his knee under the table, the rough weave of the fabric rubbing comfortingly over the skin. He presses down hard on the bruise he feels stretched across his kneecap, the bone twinging under the pressure.

Matt licks at the cut inside his cheek again. The sting settles his nerves. Matt nods, “I know—I mean, I fucked up, I know I did. But I meant it—I want you to trust me again. I’m—” I love you, he almost says, the words pressing up against the back of his throat, so firmly he feels like he’s choking. “You’re my family. I wouldn’t be who I am without you.”

Foggy’s heart beats hard, harder still, his pulse beating fitfully. It’s hard to tell if it’s anger or fear.

“I—” Foggy sucks in deep breath, his lungs expand to their limit, fill with air until the tissue’s nearly straining. It whistles through his nostrils as he pushes it out. “I don’t know if you noticed but I’ve sort of thrown my whole ass lot in with you, Murdock.” A skittish chuckle catches on the back of Foggy’s teeth. “And that’s never scared me as much as it has in the last few weeks. You—you had—you have an entire secret life I never knew about. You never told me about it, Matty. You didn’t—” He exhales again, his heart slowing a fraction. “You’re still my best friend, Matt. I’m still pissed and I still want the truth, but God help me, I—I’m not going away.”      

Foggy’s heart is still panicked, but there’s no lie in his voice. Matt squeezes down hard on the bruise on his knee.

He wants to believe it.

“I—thank you—Foggy, I—”

Foggy leans forward with a swift creak, whine, hair rustling at the sudden sweep of his hand over it. “Please don’t make me regret it, Matthew.”

“You won’t.” Matt swears. He wants it to be true.

 

**From very far away**

 

“Matt.” Foggy says, and Matt knows he shouldn’t be listening, not anymore. But Foggy’s wallet is heavy in his coat pocket and the smell of him—it’s different, new cologne, new clothes, expensive liquor on his breath when he held Matt close, but under it, the same Foggy Matt knows by heart—is still strong in Matt’s nose.

“Matty, you can’t—you can’t just—I need you to come back. I wanted you to come back. I can’t do this— Jesus—”

Matt nearly stops. He wants to turn around, walk back up the stairs. He wants to run back towards Foggy and see if he can feel anything like himself again.

It feels like he’s slogging through deep water again, his head full, Foggy’s voice muffled, dulled, nearly indecipherable for a long moment. He doesn’t know if it’s the remains of his concussion or something else, one more thing wrong with him that he can’t fix.

He shakes his head to clear it, hears Foggy say his name one more time, whispered low and pleading. “Come home, Matt.”

Matt ducks his head, keeps walking until Foggy’s voice disappears completely.

 

**When the broken grass litters the floor**

 

“Oh shit,” Matt hears before he even pushes open the door.  Foggy’s heartrate is elevated, but there’s no fear in the air, just the scent of Foggy’s signature brand of gut rot, coffee brewed so strong Karen swears she can stand a spoon in it.

It mixes with the warring aromas of salami, pastrami, prosciutto, and smoked turkey wafting up from the first floor. It would be enough to turn Matt’s stomach if he didn’t have years of dealing with the signal odors New York City in all types of weather.

Foggy sighs. “Do we tell Arjun that his personalized thank you gift was printed on a mug whose handle fell off the first time I poured a hot liquid into it?” He asks, nudging the pile of ceramic shards with his foot. The liquid is seeping along the groves in the floorboards. The smell of it will stick around for days.

“I feel like we’d be complicit to faulty manufacturing practices if we didn’t.” Matt replies, setting his briefcase down on Karen’s desk, easing out of his jacket and fiddling with the buttons at his cuffs until he can roll his sleeves up. He doesn’t miss the minute markers given off by Foggy’s body, the slight rise in his body temperature, the half-beat skip of his pulse, the shiver on his next inhale.

It’s flattering and Matt isn’t above admitting it. It’s nice to know Foggy isn’t completely immune to what he sees. Matt takes his time making sure his sleeves are just right, deliberately bending his arm just so, pulling the fabric of his shirt tight around his bicep, feels his shirt buttons strain slightly as his chest.

Something clicks in Foggy’s throat. Matt grins.

He goes over to Foggy, careful not to kneel in the spreading puddle, gingerly plucking pieces of the ruined mug off the floor. A recent client of theirs, Arjun Jha, had gifted them all mugs with the firms name printed on them. Matt has a feeling his will be staying at the corner of his desk, within arm’s reach, containing spare pens for clients. He’s recently taken to running his fingers over the printing before he goes home for the night, likes all their names in a column, one over and under the other. _Nelson, Murdock, and Page._

Foggy holds his hand out to take the broken pieces from Matt, tossing them into a nearby trash can. The smell of coffee hangs around him strongest, enough that Matt knows this wasn’t his first cup today.

He’s been having a hard time sleeping recently, has ever since he and Marci split up. He told Matt it was amicable and there wasn’t a lie in his voice when he said that, but he’s been closed lipped about it otherwise.

“Uh,” Foggy says, shifting out of a squat with a hand pull of broken glass. “I’m gonna go get some paper towels.”

Matt listens to him walk away, the shift of the wooden floorboards and the sigh of his shoe soles, the way the fabric covering his inner thighs rubs against itself as he moves.

He feels flushed and ridiculous, to be this old and this lovesick after all this time.

Foggy comes back, paper towels wadded in his fist, sops up the worst of the mess. “We can split custody of my mug, if you’d like.” Matt offers, throwing a wad of dripping napkins at the trash can in a clean arch.

Foggy tuts, unimpressed. But Matt, who has years of practice picking smiles out of Foggy’s voice, can feel the shape of it when he answers, “Deal.”  

 

**Over and over again, till it’s nothing but a senseless babble**

 

“Fuck,” Foggy groans, hands tightening their grip as Matt buries his face in the sweat-slick column of his throat and bites down hard enough to bruise. “Fuck, Matty, fuck.”

If Matt had even two brain cells left he’d remind himself why this is a bad idea, but rational thought has long since gone. There’s no room for thinking here, just feeling, his senses overloaded by every scrap of Foggy he can pick up. The salt in the air and the heat on his skin, the sound of his heart thundering up against Matt’s chest every time he drapes himself over the fever-flushed length of Foggy’s back.

Foggy chokes on a moan, the sound of it rattles in his bones, and Matt grunts against Foggy’s skin, the tip of his tongue flicking over Foggy’s racing pulse, fucks him faster to see if he can match it’s pace.

“Jesus Christ, Murdock.” Foggy sucks in a messy breath, arms shaking against the mattress at the new rhythm Matt sets for them, and Matt sucks sloppily on his ear lobe in reply. Foggy yelps when Matt leaves it with a parting tug of his teeth.

Matt laughs, the sound tearing loose from his throat, snakes a hand down Foggy’s belly in order to work in quick ruthless strokes over Foggy’s erection.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Foggy chants beneath him, body seizing, tightening, making it nearly impossible for Matt to thrust before going slack, shuddering through the aftershocks of an orgasm, spilling weakly against the soiled bedsheets as Matt works him through the sensation to the very end.

“Matty,” Foggy moans, softer now, calmer, but his heart is still roaring in Matt’s ears, and Matt gives into the white-hot heat in his belly, finds relief from the spiraling tension in his own body in Foggy’s. “Matty, Matty.” Foggy says his name again and again, lets Matt lie on top of him, witless and boneless and breathless.

Matt’s common-sense trickles back slowly, like a pot might fill under a leaking ceiling, one drop at a time. Maybe that’s why instead of finding the shoreline of his self-doubt he finds his mouth moving mindlessly. “I love you, Foggy.” He says, and Foggy moves, pokes at Matt until they’re lying side by side, turned towards each other. Despite what they just did, Matt feels laid bare in front of Foggy for the first time. His eyes sting and he blinks, wills the suffocating heat away.  Even after all this time and all they’ve been though, Matt still doesn’t know what to do with the way Foggy makes him feel.

Foggy touches him, hand gentle over Matt’s racing heart. Matt swallows, wants to offer something different, a condolence or an apology. Maybe he’ll never know.

He never meant for this to happen.

But all that comes out when he opens his mouth is, “I love you.” He sounds like a child, lost, afraid.

Foggy scoots closer, knee sliding between Matt’s thighs and the sweat still beading in the hair there, his hand leaving Matt’s chest in order to traverse across the shivering plane of Matt’s back. His face nudges Matt’s and Matt kisses him, mouth trembling, heart shuddering, part-fear, part wild, reckless joy, akin to the feeling of leaping off a rooftop into the unknown.

“I really love you.” Matt whispers, faintly incredulous, because the words don’t mean half what they should, not compared to the softness with which Foggy catches them on his lips, sighing Matt’s name again.

“Matty.” He says, hand careful where it holds still over Matt’s madman heart. “Matty.” And even if his words are an echo, his voice doesn’t sound too different from Matt’s. It doesn’t sound different at all.  

**Over your shoulder**

 

The world is a pleasant blur, smudged and soft all around him. Foggy’s hair smells like ginger and coriander from the restaurant they sat in just half an hour ago and there’s already a faintly sweet acidity to his skin, the result of the red wine they shared over dinner. Foggy’s laughter rumbles in his throat and his shoulder wiggles under Matt’s cheek where he’s draped along Foggy’s back.

“Matty, budge over a little man, I can’t get this—oomph!” The key slips, scratches against the metal face of the dead bolt, and Foggy laughs, presses his head against the door and tries to take a deep breath. Matt rides the rise of Foggy’s back, feels the column of spine press more firmly along his chest, sinks into the slow fall of Foggy’s exhale.

His heart beats slow and lazy in Matt’s ears and Matt sways a little on his feet, rocked by the rhythm of Foggy’s pulse.

“Matthew Marie Murdock,” Foggy hiccups, laughter marring his attempt at being stern, “I love you, but you are not helping the situation right now.”

Matt smiles wide, teeth scraping against the slightly sweat-damp material of the shirt covering Foggy’s shoulder. The words make him feel like his stomach is going to explode, they fill him up completely, more than any excessive amount of food or alcohol ever could.

Foggy elbows Matt gently at in the side, and Matt hides his face against the back of Foggy’s neck, slips both arms around his waist and pulls him closer.

“I could do it with my eyes closed.” Matt taunts lightly. Foggy snorts, key finally sliding into place, internal lever giving way and sliding the dead bolt free.

“Yahtzee!” Foggy cheers, stumbling forward when Matt’s hand strikes out to turn the door handle, pushing the door open and shuffling them both inside.  

“Oof!” Foggy squeaks when he nearly collides with the opposite wall, but Matt deftly rolls them, catches Foggy up in his arms, chest still pressed neatly against the length of Foggy’s back.

“I’m starting to question whether your actually drunk or just like using me as a human walker.” Foggy laughs drily, feet lazily dragging them towards their bedroom.

“I like you all the time.” Matt says honestly, resting his cheek on Foggy’s shoulder.

“Oh Matty. You softie. You’re making me blush.” Foggy says, hand locking around Matt’s wrist where it rests over his stomach, gripping it tight.

 

**Too quick, mumbled into your scarf**

 

“I’ll see you later.” Matt mumbles, still groggy. He’d thought about rescheduling with Ms. Hampton this morning but knows how hard it was for her to find the time to meet with him as it is. If seven-thirty in the morning is the time that works best for her than it’s the time that’ll have to work best for Matt.

He pockets his keys, his wallet, left to right, just like every other morning, he almost yawns on cue, the weariness from last night’s patrol still hanging heavy over his head. This morning, his scarf is waiting for him too, and he grins as he pulls it around his neck.

It’s taken a bit of adjustment getting used to having a roommate again after all his years living alone, but Matt can’t picture himself going back now.

Foggy hums around a mouthful of toast, crumbs raining down on the countertop and hitting the casefile he has open in front of him.

“I’ll see you later,” Foggy says, attention divided between Matt and whatever he’s reading. Matt covers his mouth to smother the next yawn, pick up the piece of jam covered toast waiting for him on a napkin. He pinches it between his teeth while he pats his pockets in one last check.

Foggy turns a page, wipes stray crumbs away, takes a sip of coffee.

 “Hey,” Foggy says, even as Matt shoulders his bag. “Wait a sec.”  There’s the familiar rush of coffee being poured, and then the squeak of a lid being screwed tight. Foggy walks around the counter towards Matt. He gently pries the toast from Matt’s mouth, Matt scrunches up his nose against another yawn, mouth twitching into a weak grin when Foggy leans in and presses a kiss to the corner of Matt’s mouth. Matt leans forward, nose nudging closer, biting gently at Foggy’s lower lip. He tastes like strawberries and coffee.

Foggy curls his fingers into the loose fall of Matt’s scarf, holds him close just a fraction of a second longer until Matt yawns against his lips.

He passes the travel mug over into Matt’s left hand. “Okay, now you can go.”

Matt huffs a small laugh, steals a second-quick kiss. He knows that he’ll see Foggy again in the office before he does here, back home, but he’s already looking forward to it, body waking with anticipation.  

“Have a great day, Fog.”

 

**As a goodbye**

 

Foggy’s palms are warm against the sides of Matt’s face before he pulls the mask down over his eyes. “See you when you get back.”

Matt presses his forehead against Foggy’s, shifts his fingers through the short hair at the nape of his neck, presses a swift, hard kiss to Foggy’s soft mouth. Foggy hums at the back of his throat, a high, happy sound. Matt never tires of it.

“Don’t wait up for me.” Matt says, grinning when Foggy squawks.

“Get out of here with that shit.” Foggy says fondly, heartbeat singing in Matt’s bones.

Matt pulls away, laughing. He can still hear Foggy’s pulse thrumming through the air as he throws himself over the edge of the roof and out into the night.

 

**End**


End file.
